


HERE WHERE EVERYTHING SLIPPED

by cailures



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: F/F, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cailures/pseuds/cailures
Summary: Right now, slumped down into her bunk, door locked, covered in blankets, Rachel wants to fuck someone so bad that she's seriously considering going to Quinn and telling her that she, Rachel, is a bona-fide swings-that-way bisexual and she, Rachel, wants very badly to get down on her knees and prove what a good fucking bisexual she is.





	HERE WHERE EVERYTHING SLIPPED

**Author's Note:**

> For #7.

Essential Honesty. Rachel breathes in, out. 

August is a smoking hottie and knowing Quinn picked him for her is just the icing on the cake. He should be in his hammock, of course, but he's not, because a certain amount of flightiness is required for guys to truly be her type. 

August is perfect. He's just not here. 

Essential honesty. For her. Breathe in, out.

Rachel's pissed. She feels caught, the tight shame sinking into her cheeks as she looks around the immediate area. She can't deal with trying to find him. Fuck.

Time for a retreat. 

*

Problems with a retreat: time to stew. Space to stew. It was easier when what she was stewing on was lies.

Rachel's too shaky to write, so she just stares at her calendar. Her lie calendar. She hasn't crossed anything off yet. She needs to.

Essential honesty.

Right now, slumped down into her bunk, door locked, covered in blankets, Rachel wants to fuck someone so bad that she's seriously considering going to Quinn and telling her that she, Rachel, is a bona-fide swings-that-way bisexual and she, Rachel, wants very badly to get down on her knees and prove what a good fucking bisexual she is.

And also that if Quinn would touch her once like that, ever, it would mean that Rachel's finally lost her shit. 

Essential fucking honesty. She spends too much of her ambient thought on Quinn fucking her and has for a long time. Her bullshit brain used to pull the same trick with her Vassar professors that were the biggest bitches. Everyone else complained and Rachel wore out cheap novelty vibes getting off after every page of her essays.

Rachel's clit is throbbing so badly that it's fucking painful. Blue balls isn't real but her clit is fucking aching and it is deeply uncomfortable and. And. It's not fucking, but it'll do.

Rachel's breath catches and she realizes she has one hand on her stomach, under her shirt. Her hand is fucking cold. That's what did it. The coldness. Oh. Jesus fuck, and her clit's still going, and now her goddamned vag is getting in on the ache.

Fuck it, she decides, and shoves her hand into the blankets to find her tiny vibe. She kicks her jeans off at the same time, and before she can even think about pulling her phone out and looking for a porn she decides fuck it. Not like she needs it, strictly speaking. 

The buzz is almost soft with the rushing in her ears, and the moan of relief when she presses it along the line of her slit outside of her panties. Usually she'll try and make it last--no more than once a day, back at camp--but Rachel's already biting her lip, pressing harder. Fuck. 

Panties are so easy to get on, but sweaty and sex-clumsy, she finds herself struggling to get them down, hears the fabric rip and just lets them stay around her shins. Her body's humming and her clit is begging and she wants it. 

The fantasy that comes to mind almost immediately involves Quinn, with that self-assured smile, telling her that she's done well. It was a smile Quinn used a lot in the early days, more sparingly since the tattoo. It's a smile that means they're doing things they really shouldn't, and Quinn likes it that way. She likes playing Rachel like a fiddle.

The problem Rachel's always had is not knowing if she wants to be someone or wants to fuck them. With Quinn, the problem is that it's both and Rachel is supposed to be better than either. Quinn makes Rachel fucking crazy. Literally.

Fuck, what if Quinn's into face-sitting? She could just. Sit on Rachel's face just like this. Sit there and run her fingers through Rachel's hair and tell her how good she's doing while Rachel eats her out. 

There's nothing like the taste of cunt. Nothing like the feel of it, pressing on Rachel's face, wet and soft and shivery in the right way. Thighs gripping her cheeks, keeping her there, keeping her safe. 

Breath. Breathe. Quinn lets her breathe sometimes. Controls it, of course. Makes sure Rachel can, but also makes sure Rachel can't think. There's no other point of sex.

No thinking, just steady buzz and Quinn's moans, Quinn's cunt, Quinn's fingers in Rachel's hair, Quinn's raspy voice. Rachel's doing so well. Passing every test with flying colors. 

"I think I'm going to keep you," the Quinn in Rachel's fantasy says, with a low growl sneaking into her voice on the word "you" and oh, yes, there, there. 

Rachel shudder-rolls onto her side, thighs clasping together as she comes. 

Essential honesty. Her fantasy should stop there, purpose served. It doesn't, though, no matter how Rachel tries to chalk it all up to tedious mommy issues. Eyes closed, heart pounding, steady waves of orgasm receding, Quinn slides off her face and lays out beside her.

"Good girl," she says. Her voice is satisfaction, like an unexpected on camera fistfight. She drags her thumb over Rachel's bottom lip, then pushes it into Rachel's mouth.

Rachel bites her bottom lip, turning her vibe between her fingers. This is pathetic. She pushes the button and it buzzes to life in her hand, then slient again. Alive, dead. Powered, unpowered.

Outside of the truck, probably somewhere in the mansion's brick walled-in backyard, a male laugh floats up. 

And that's the sharpest return to reality. Rachel turns off her vibe once and for all, tosses it away, and rolls over to bury her face in the pillow. 

Essential honesty. Fucking essential fucking honesty, this is turning into a problem that she can't fuck away. Which limits her options and more than that, maybe the last five years of her life have just been one protracted march toward not wanting to get away.

Like the laugh was a trigger, more male voices come, the words indistinct but the tone clear. A minefield of potential mistakes, all hand-picked.

Just another day in paradise, Rachel thinks, and roots in her jeans pockets for her earplugs.


End file.
